ABOUT ME

I'm trying not to lose my marbles. I am aware that I have already mislaid some of them ... one is stuck under the sofa, one in the Lego box and the 10 year old may have inadvertently swallowed the other

We live in West Yorkshire and are a family of five; Me, The Husband, The 11 Year Old, The 10 Year old and 20 Year Old. We also have two dogs, Jessie the chocolate Labrador and Cleo the spanish rescue Podenco.

Me - I'm Laura, I work as a Social Media Manager for a large brand. I consider myself an expert on gin, cake and moustaches ... in that order.

The Husband is a designer. We've been together for 15 years . He spends most of his time wishing I was more interested in housework, looked like Andrea Corr and didn't talk in my sleep. He loves football, rugby and cricket, his family and cooking which is fortunate as I don't ... the cooking bit that is.

The 11 year old has the memory of an elephant. She loves school, reading, music and wants to be a vet when she's older. She is always surprising me with her kindness and her ability to say embarrassing things really loudly in public.

The 10 year old only has two speeds, VERY fast and asleep. If you can leap off it, roll under it, ride it or break it, he will. He NEVER stops eating. If he's grumpy it's because he is either hungry or tired. According to the scan he was supposed to be a girl, so imagine our surprise when he popped out on The Husband's birthday, a boy.

The 20 year old is my stepdaughter and came to live with us permanently a few years ago.

You can find me on Facebook here, Instagram here and Twitter here or just email me at laurachora@gmail.com

Archives

Pages

The spots are the difference (By Gramps)

September 14, 2013

Rictus (noun) The gaping of the mouth – often restricted to the corners of the mouth.

Wallace of Wallace and Gromit and Ed Milliband of the Labour Party are masters of the rictus grin. And so is, when faced with a situation of ambiguity, my grandson; the sort of situation which could be considered serious and yet, equally, could be seen as funny. When I was about the same age as my grandson an event at school placed me in the same dilemma.

Our teacher, Miss McIntosh announced with great enthusiasm (and to our unbridled delight) that instead of arithmetic we would be shown a film about leopards. I had seen leopards close up in Edinburgh Zoo peering dolefully but menacingly at me through the bars of their cage. A nature documentary wasn’t my film of choice but I was elated about missing couple of hours of the torture of multiplication tables.

We were led into a room with rows of small seats and a projector. The boys occupied the rear seats where we could mess about while the girls giggled and chattered in the front rows. I ended up in one of the end seats.The blinds were pulled down and the projector softly clattered into action and a flickering image appeared on the screen. An African landscape slowly emerged as Miss McIntosh moved to stand near me obviously to ensure the boys didn’t mess about at the back of the room. “Where’s the leopards Miss?” An impatient voice in the gloom. “Ah canny see any leopards Miss”

A small village was suddenly large on the screen and the camera panned around to focus on a group of beings with the most grotesquely deformed limbs and faces. We were now totally absorbed by the horrific scene, the absence of leopards forgotten. This was enthralling stuff.

As children we were quite accustomed to this level of horror. Saturday matinees at the local cinema, known locally as the Flea Pit, served up, along with flea bites, two distinct film genres: The Wild West featuring men in big hats, six shooters and Apache Indians or African films featuring men in pith helmets, large elephant guns and monsters in murky lagoons. I imagine Miss McIntosh enjoyed a more sensitive genre of film.

Miss McIntosh, who had clearly taken leave of her senses to think a film about lepers was suitable for seven year olds soon literally did lose her senses. Hearing her gasp “Oh no! Oh god, these poor, poor people!” I looked up to see her with her fist jammed in her mouth as she swooned, slid down the wall and performed a slow, sliding tackle on my chair worthy of a yellow card. This was my ambiguous situation; serious yet at the same time funny. I turned to look at my classmates to see a row faces reflecting my rictus grin.

In the way that my granddaughter is 9 going on 39 girls even then displayed the same sense of maturity beyond their years. While I sat immobilised, entangled with Miss McIntosh’s sturdy legs Gwendoline Goodall and Morag Monteith rushed to our teacher’s aid (Or, at least to stand and discuss the crisis over her inert body like indecisive paramedics) while Jennifer the class swot ran frantically for help.

Miss McIntosh was absent for a while and when she eventually resumed her duties no mention was made of lepers or indeed leopards.